


Nocturnal Perturbations of Royal Omegas

by starrysummernights



Series: As the Summer Rains Fall [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Greg Lestrade, Alpha John Watson, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Big Brother Mycroft, Brother Feels, Brotherly Affection, Brothers, M/M, Mentions of knotting, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, No Underage Sex, Omega Mycroft, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, mentions of heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 10:45:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13269825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrysummernights/pseuds/starrysummernights
Summary: “Mycroft?”Sherlock’s soft whisper coming from the shadows of his bedroom in the dead of night had lost the thrill of horror it used to give Mycroft when Sherlock was younger. Then, when Sherlock would slip silently along the private hallway that connected their rooms, and into Mycroft’s bedroom, closing the door behind him with only the smallest of sounds, Mycroft had been none the wiser. As Sherlock tiptoed to the bed, like a cherubic thief in the night, Mycroft had slept on, unaware and blissful, only startling awake when Sherlock hissed his name almost right in his ear. It’d given Mycroft such a fright- on more than one occasion- he was sure 20 years had been taken from his life.





	Nocturnal Perturbations of Royal Omegas

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second installment of my Omegaverse AU. Sherlock is 11, John is 15, Mycroft is 19, and Greg is in his upper 20s. There will be NO underage sex that takes place in this series, and this is not Holmescest.

“Mycroft?”

Sherlock’s soft whisper coming from the shadows of his bedroom in the dead of night had lost the thrill of horror it used to give Mycroft when Sherlock was younger. Then, when Sherlock would slip silently along the private hallway that connected their rooms, and into Mycroft’s bedroom, closing the door behind him with only the smallest of sounds, Mycroft had been none the wiser. As Sherlock tiptoed to the bed, like a cherubic thief in the night, Mycroft had slept on, unaware and blissful, only startling awake when Sherlock hissed his name almost right in his ear. It’d given Mycroft such a fright- on more than one occasion- he was sure 20 years had been taken from his life.

“Mycroft?”

Sherlock’s nocturnal visits to his room were ordinary now, and Mycroft didn’t even open his eyes before flinging a corner of his duvet back in invitation. He felt the mattress dip as the slight frame of his little brother scrambled onto the bed and Sherlock wriggled across the wide expanse until he was pressed all alongside Mycroft. His body, even through his nightgown, felt cold from his short jaunt down the hallway, and without asking, he stuck his icy toes against Mycroft’s calves.

“Gods above, Sherlock!” Mycroft jerked away but Sherlock’s feet followed him like small eels beneath the covers, seeking out his warmth. “Stop it!”

“I’m cold!” He whined, but Mycroft shoved at him.

“Then go back to your own room. It’s your fault you’re cold anyway- where are your slippers?”

“I don’t know.”

It was a lie. Mycroft knew very well that Sherlock knew exactly where his slippers were. He just hadn’t wanted to take the time to put them on, instead springing from his bed and darting down the cold stone hallway as fast as he could, his feet turning numb with every step on the frozen floor but knowing Mycroft would let him warm them up when he climbed into his bed.

Which, of course, he was right about.

Mycroft sighed and gave up fighting, letting his little brother squirm closer and leech all of his warmth away and make it his own. Sherlock wriggled in happiness and stuck his toes against Mycroft’s legs again, ten little icicles.

“What do you want?”

Mycroft didn’t mean to sound rude, but it was bloody well past midnight. He had to be up early in the morning and meet with Captain Lestrade to discuss the security for the betrothal ceremony, as well as finalize Sherlock’s rotation of escorts for the few months that the Alpha Prince would be staying with them in Northumbria. Then, there was finishing the itinerary for the tour of the country to introduce the Prince to the people and their way of life. They would all be going along on the tour, except Mummy of course, and arranging to have their palaces (some of which no one had lived in for years) fixed up and ready for them, shown to their best advantage, sending ahead the necessary supplies, vetting and hiring extra servants, and deciding how quickly the carriages would move was all tasking. Mycroft was busy.

He was also tired and cold. Although, now he was wide awake from icy little feet, which had probably been Sherlock’s plan all along. He knew Sherlock would not have come to his room unless there was something important on his mind.

Mycroft, with a feeling of resigned dread, had a very good idea just what that was.

For the past five months, ever since the betrothal with Scotland had been finalized, Sherlock had peppered Mycroft with questions, nonstop, from dawn to dusk- and then often times sneaking into Mycroft’s room at night and carrying on- about his future husband, the Alpha Prince John Watson.

What was he like? What did he wear? Was he smart? Was he very stupid? Did he breathe with his mouth open? How long was his hair? What color? Was he clean? Did he bathe regularly? What about his eyes? Were they crossed? Oddly spaced? What color? Eyebrows? What about his body type? Short and stocky? Tall and lean? Fat or thin? What sort of clothes did he wear? Shoes? What were his opinions on programs to feed the poor? Did he believe prison work details were humane or no? Did he seem the sort of person who would put a lot of people in prison? How did he walk? Was he fair? Was he honest? What was his best personality trait? What was his worst? Was he friendly? Too friendly? How did he talk to people? What were his favorite foods? What was Mycroft’s impression of him when he first laid eyes on him, and how did it compare to what he thought of him after he’d gotten to know John better?

“You’ll get to know him when he arrives, Sherlock.” -had been Mycroft’s ready answer, but he’d still tried to answer as many of Sherlock’s questions as he could.

But he didn’t know why his little brother needed to know why John had a scar near his left ear (accident during sword training), why he was of medium height and stocky build (with short blonde hair and dark blue eyes that were not crossed), why he wore last year’s clothes (practicality because he was a fighter and outdoorsman, and necessity because his father refused to give him money for new ones), and he didn’t know why Sherlock needed to know that Prince John wore brown boots instead of black. Mycroft didn’t even know the answer to that last query anyway. He supposed the Alpha Prince just enjoyed one over the other, but Sherlock had wanted to know why.

Why, why, why?

It didn’t _matter_.

Because Mycroft had not spent months and months carefully gathering all the information his spies sent him on the Alpha, traveling over half the godsdamn continent to meet him, and then enduring the oozing attentions of King Watson only to betrothe his little brother to a brutish, uneducated, moron. The color of John’s boots didn’t matter. What mattered was his character and Mycroft wished Sherlock had more faith in him to choose his future mate than he clearly did.

But Mycroft supposed Sherlock’s questions were natural- he would certainly want to know everything he could about an Alpha he would one day be marrying- so Mycroft tried to answer any and all of Sherlock’s questions. Keeping his patience and annoyance in check.

He assured Sherlock that on first meeting Prince John, he’d thought he was probably a handsome young Alpha, by most people’s standards, and intelligent for the simple reason that he’d managed to survive 15 years in his father’s ruthless Court without being assassinated. This hinted at duplicitous behavior, but as it had been necessary to stay alive, Mycroft could understand and excuse it. John had no bad habits he could deduce and thankfully the proclivity to overindulge in alcohol, which both his father and sister displayed regularly with shocking disregard, had spared John.

In front of his father, John kept his eyes and head down, rarely peeling his gaze from the floor which let Mycroft know that he was used to trying to remain as invisible as possible; however, he wasn’t a dullard because the few times Mycroft had managed to catch him alone, he’d found John plain-spoken and direct, honest and not mincing his words or couching them behind vague insults, which Mycroft admired.

The only facet of John Watson which had given Mycroft pause, and unease, was the Alpha’s seemingly endless penchant for violence. Spears, mace, hammer, arrows, swords- he was trained in them all, though he clearly preferred swords, and his hand-to-hand combat skills were impressive...and disquieting.

As Captain Lestrade had pointed out while he and Mycroft watched John train, it was an understandable skill for him to have, especially considering the climate of his father’s Court. If John hadn’t been a fighter, no doubt he would have already been dead, and Mycroft had heard the rumors which had already begun to swirl involving John’s own sister. Mycroft had still wondered- as he must, weighing all parts of John’s character- if that particular skill could one day be turned on Sherlock, when they were both older, and when Sherlock behaved in a way the Alpha didn’t like. It wasn’t an unheard of way for an Alpha to act, was quite common in fact, but Mycroft would be damned first before anyone laid a finger on Sherlock’s fluffy head to cause him harm.

He had seen bursts of honor in John- when he was away from his father- and the few times his father had raised a hand against his own Omega Queen, appallingly in front of everyone, even at mealtimes, John had sat rigidly in his chair, staring straight ahead, white in impotent rage. His fingers gripped the edges of his chair as if to keep himself in it, and for the rest of the meal he’d shaken, unable to eat another bite, with his eyes down and to the side so as to not draw attention to himself- and the next morning he’d thrown himself into his training with furious vigor.

Mycroft thought he’d made the right choice for his little brother. He hoped.

He privately thought, and had already begun making very tentative arrangements with Captain Lestrade, that if Sherlock and John suited, it was best to remove John from his father’s Court as soon as possible. Before it poisoned him- figuratively and literally.

They would have to wait and see, though. Next month was the betrothal ceremony, when Sherlock and John would meet for the first time in front of the entire Court. Mycroft would wait to make his decision. Patience was a virtue he had in spades. So until they met in person, Mycroft would answer Sherlock’s questions about John, as accurately as possible, even if they were driving him mad.

Sherlock was being quiet, so Mycroft prodded him again, this time a bit nicer. “What is it you want, Locky?”

“Mycroft?”

“Mm?”

Sherlock fell quiet again and Mycroft listened to him breathe in the darkness, somewhere near his right shoulder. He could feel Sherlock’s body crumpled against his side, arms pressed to his chest, and his toes wiggled as they warmed. Mycroft settled in his bed while Sherlock thought of his question, resting his cheek against the top of Sherlock’s head and closing his eyes. Sherlock’s curls tickled his nose and he breathed in Sherlock’s clean, sweet smell, a scent he’d known since Sherlock was born and was as familiar with as his own. He experienced a sweep of love and terrible panic for the little boy he’d help raise from a baby, and desperately hoped and prayed- even if he didn’t actually believe in the gods- that he’d made the right choice for his little brother.

“Mycroft? What’s it like?”

“What’s… _what_ like?”

Sherlock whispered his next word, so low that even as close as they were, Mycroft almost didn’t hear it.

“Heat.”

The one little word which held so much meaning and significance to Omegas. Heat. It was what shaped their entire lives, from the moment they experienced their first, to their last. Their lives wholly revolved around their cycles and preparations for upcoming heats, securing necessary supplies and scheduling appointments carefully so nothing would coincide with their heat and leave them out and exposed. Ensuring they could be safely at home when it occurred, and not at the mercy of strange Alphas. Once their heat began, Omegas were powerless to fight against it for long and even the most stoic would succumb. They couldn’t help it. Travel plans were put off, marriages were arranged, and Omegas were highly protected to keep unwanted Alphas away, kept in seclusion or under close watch. For their protection. Their lives were not their own and many were powerless to do anything about it. It was just the way of things.

Mycroft and Sherlock were lucky. Besides having an Alpha mother who loved them, they were also Princes, protected, and rich enough to have the best of everything at their disposal to assist them through a heat. Even keeping his real gender a secret, Mycroft was usually easy during a heat, nothing much worrying him except the obvious, confident that his mother would help him if he needed her.

Or...he _used_ to feel that way. That assurance was gone now, forever.

At Sherlock’s question, though, Mycroft shook his head. “You’re too young to understand.”

“No, I’m not.” Sherlock replied pertly, sounding more like himself. “I’m already 11, and Mummy’s told me all about Alphas and Omegas-“

“Then why are you asking me?” Mycroft asked, but he knew why. He’d thought he would have much more time than this. Sherlock was still so young. He made 11 sound as if it were impressive, but he was at least 4 years from his first heat if not longer, and Mycroft would rather have kept it that way. He’d thought- and hoped- this particular conversation would take place a few years from now and that his brother could enjoy the rest of his childhood and wouldn’t have to be tainted with the idea of heats, or worried about what would happen to him when he finally experienced one. It was a ridiculous thought. Besides being naive considering who and what they were, Sherlock himself was so inquisitive. It was one of his most charming qualities. Mycroft loved him for it.

He could actually _feel_ Sherlock’s eyes rolling in the dark with exasperation before he even opened his mouth.

“She didn’t tell me _everything_. I know she didn’t. She told me about Alphas and Omegas and knots and heat and where babies come from. All that stuff. But…I want to know- what’s it actually like. A heat?”

Mycroft sighed. “You do realize that you’re years away from experiencing a heat of your own?”

“Yes, but-“

“And that even if you _are_ betrothed to John Watson, if he so much as lays a _finger_ on you before you’re of age and married, I’ll have him emasculated, then skinned and hung from the nearest battlement?”

Sherlock snickered at Mycroft’s graphic protectiveness, toes wiggling agitatedly. “I know. I’m not worried about that. But. Since you announced the betrothal and I’ve been preparing for the ceremony- Mrs. Hudson won’t let me stop practising that damn bow by the way-”

“Language, Sherlock-”

“- but It’s made me think. I will be marrying him- the Alpha- eventually, as you just said. And I will have a heat, eventually, even if it’s years away because I am an Omega. And… when John and I get married, I’ll have heats-“

“You’re too young to be thinking about things like that.” Mycroft said suppressively, but Sherlock wasn’t dissuaded.

“I don’t mean to be crass. I just want to know what it’s like. I want to be prepared.”

Internally, Mycroft struggled. How could he explain what a heat felt like without scaring Sherlock? The feeling was really beyond words. An Omega had to experience a heat before they truly understood what everyone was talking about. A few months before Mycroft’s first heat, his father had sat him down and told him about arousal and need and how to take care of it himself with special implements...but he hadn’t told Mycroft how much his body would crave it, or that the first few knottings he did himself sometimes didn’t work until one mastered the art of exactly what their body required. Or that he would have hated himself but would have gladly thrown himself at anyone in that moment- when the third knotting failed to relieve him and he had been crying and scared- if they promised to make him feel better.

Mycroft knew that his father had probably felt uncomfortable talking about such a private thing with his son- much as Mycroft felt right then with Sherlock- but Mycroft had always resented his father somewhat after that, for not having prepared him like he felt he should have. He should have told him. Mycroft should not have gone into his first heat not knowing.

“It’s…devastating.” He said quietly, deciding to go with truth instead of comforting lies. “Some people talk about how it’s lovely and easy and fun- Alphas mostly because it would feel that way for them, wouldn’t it? Real heat, for Omegas, isn’t like that. It shatters everything you thought you knew about yourself and your morals, and turns your own body against you. Your thoughts, your feelings…they’re all demolished under the crushing need which feels as if it’s tearing its way through you. All you can think about, in that moment, is a way to make it stop and find some temporary relief. You panic because you need it so badly and it feels like you’ll die, actually die, if you don’t get it. But there is nothing you can do for yourself, because the only way to make it stop is-”

“Knotting.”

Mycroft nodded and they lapsed into a heavy silence as Sherlock processed what he’d been told, fitting it in with scraps and gleanings he already knew while Mycroft tried thinking of a way to explain...

“Maybe… Sherlock, it is possible that I resent my heats somewhat more than other Omegas because I prize having control of myself at all times. It’s…” Mycroft bit his tongue. He’d almost said it was ‘not so bad,’ but that would be a lie. He changed course. “A heat can be endured, Sherlock. It only lasts for a couple of days and you will have lots of implements which can assist you. It won’t be terrible.”

“Implements?” Sherlock frowned, then his brow cleared. “ _Oh_. Do you mean those things you keep hidden in the false floor at the back of your wardrobe? The ones that look like-“

“ _Sherlock_!” Mycroft shoved his little brother away, face flaming with color as he sat up. “I’ve told you not to spy on me!”

“I wasn’t spying, I was just curious!”

“Well, sod your curiosity! I should be able to have some privacy without you ferreting out things you have no right to be looking at or- or touching-“

“I’m sorry! I didn’t think you’d mind-“

“That’s a lie!”

“Ok- I knew you’d mind but I thought you’d understand! You’ve been having-“ Even in the middle of their argument Sherlock dropped his voice to barely above a whisper so no one would hear him- “heats, for years and I’ve never really noticed or cared until now-“

“Keep not caring.” Mycroft growled. He had never been so embarrassed in all his life, not even when he had gone into heat and been knotted by Gregory Lestrade. Horrifically, he couldn’t stop imagining Sherlock sneaking into his room and going through his things, finding the hidden niche in his wardrobe and opening it to find-

“Go back to your room.” He flung himself back down on the bed, turning over and giving Sherlock his back. He wrenched the covers up and over his ears and resolutely shut his eyes, letting Sherlock know their conversation was officially over.

Gods above. Could nothing he owned be his? Couldn’t he have at least one secret? Just one? Mycroft grimaced. He couldn’t stop thinking of Sherlock taking the implements out of the niche, confused until he realized what they were, turning them over in his hands, touching them-

Fuck. He’d have to burn them all, or somehow get rid of them. There was no way Mycroft would ever be able to use them again during a heat without thinking of Sherlock seeing them and experiencing the same sick swoop of shame he felt at this moment. He wanted to die from embarrassment. The last person he wanted to think of touching his implements, or during a heat, was his little brother (closely followed by Mummy and father), and he did not ever, ever, ever want his brother seeing his godsdamn sex toys with their pervertedly large knots-

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, trying not to cry from the shame of it all.

Behind him, Sherlock settled gingerly on the bed, careful not to jostle or touch Mycroft but decidedly not going back to his bedroom. Mycroft pretended to sleep for a while but he knew he was breathing too hard through his nose, still angry and upset, to be convincing.

“Mycroft? I’m sorry.” Sherlock ventured quietly, but Mycroft pretended not to hear him. He didn’t want Sherlock’s apology. Sherlock was old enough to have known better than to do what he’d done, and even if he hadn’t, once he realized what he was touching he should have put them back and left them alone. Mycroft’s hands clenched into fists, ashamed, his face so red it almost hurt.

“Mycroft...I’m sorry that I invaded your privacy and touched your impleme-“

“Stop. Talking. Sherlock.”

Sherlock broke off with a little huff, but he still didn’t go back to his room. Mycroft could feel the weight of his little brother’s eyes boring a hole in his back but he wasn’t in an accommodating mood. Hang Sherlock and hang his questions.

Mycroft held out for all of five minutes before he sighed, relaxing his posture but staying turned away from Sherlock. He just couldn’t face him right now. He didn’t want to face Sherlock for at least a week. Maybe longer. He could still imagine Sherlock finding one particular implement with a huge, fake knot at one end and at the other a wide, flared-

Mycroft shuddered in revulsion, thinking he would almost be sick, pressing a hand against his mouth. Gods above. For a moment he couldn’t speak around the choking embarrassment.

“What?” He finally asked, none too politely, but Sherlock didn’t need more encouragement than that.

“Those are used during your-...during a heat?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock was quiet then- “How _exactly_ do they work if-“

“Gods above! Figure. It. Out.” Mycroft ground through clenched teeth because he was _not_ having this conversation with Sherlock. He wasn’t. He had changed Sherlock’s nappies and fed him bottles when he was a baby. He had played with him, taught him how to do experiments, and secured the best tutors in the realm for him. He’d bandaged Sherlock when he hurt himself, taught him to read, fixed his toys, held him when he cried, and protected him from as much of the world as he could.

Mycroft was not- fucking _not_ \- going to be the one to tell Sherlock exactly how an Omega used an implement with a fake knot to satiate their heat.

He wasn’t.

“Does it...hurt?”

“No.” Mycroft’s angry embarrassment completely relented at the hesitant, subdued tone of Sherlock’s voice, his heart pricking. He rolled onto his back again and all it took was him holding out an arm and Sherlock snugged back against his side with a pleased little hum. He could never stay mad at Sherlock for long and Sherlock knew it. They would be having a talk about boundaries though, once this was over.

And Mycroft would find another place to hide his things.

“No, Locky, it doesn’t hurt. The only part that hurts, quite honestly, is your heat. The...uh, use of the implements actually makes you feel… better.”

“Hmmm.” Sherlock’s toes were cold and he pressed them against Mycroft again while he thought and Mycroft experienced a sudden rush of heartbreak when he thought of Sherlock growing up. Maturing. They wouldn’t have nights like this anymore together. Mycroft wouldn’t be woken at half past midnight with his brother’s little voice calling to him, crawling into bed with him, and then being annoying while he asked him endless questions. The idea splintered Mycroft’s heart into pieces.

He hugged Sherlock to him, silently apologizing for getting angry, and Sherlock wrapped his arms around Mycroft too, sighing softly just as he used to when he was a toddler and Mycroft held him while he napped. The jagged pieces in Mycroft’s heart twisted.

“I just worry, My.” Sherlock said. “I don’t mean to be a bother-“

“You’re never a bother to me.” Mycroft replied staunchly and Sherlock squeezed him tighter in gratitude.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Locky.”

“It’s just real now, that I’ll be getting married.” Sherlock murmured. “When you first started looking for an Alpha, it didn’t seem true, or that it would happen. It took you so long to find someone and the longer it went on, the more unlikely it seemed. But I’m meeting next month. I’ll be betrothed to someone and...I just wonder what he’ll be like, and then I wonder how we will get to know each other before we marry over the next few years-“

“Seven years.” Mycroft corrected, because seven was more than a few and there was no reason to hurry things along.

“-and if he will like me, or I’ll like him. Then, that makes me think about heats, because it won’t matter if I like him or not when I’m of age and we get married, will it? When I have a heat?”

Mycroft wanted to lie to him, because he didn’t like the answer he would give, but he reached for the truth instead. “No, it won’t matter if you like him or not when you have a heat.”

“So. I want to know all I can about what I’ll go through and how I’ll feel.” Sherlock continued and Mycroft hated that his little brother had to think about these things and feel as if he needed to prepare himself for something terrible in the future. He _hated_ it. He hated that he couldn’t wrap Sherlock up and stash him away somewhere, far away from all the bad things in the world, far away from Alphas and heats, and keep him young and innocent forever.

“I understand.” Mycroft murmured back. “But your heats can be managed, when you have them, and the implements aren’t so bad. Embarrassing, I suppose, because you need them, but they are natural and so is the use of them. It’s what your body requires at that time. Like food, or air. They assuage your heat and provide adequate relief. You’ll be married, though, to what I think is a good Alpha, and so he will be the one to alleviate your heats. And trust me, Sherlock, it’s much, much better and easier when an Alpha is there to assist you through. You’re not left all by yourself and it’s over quicker too. He’s able to swiftly do what an implement may take you an hour to accomplish, and his scent is calming, so the panic isn’t there, or it’s muted. If he’s good, he’ll make you feel protected, give you what you need, and reassure you during the whole encounter.”

Sherlock mulled these things over and Mycroft was just thinking that maybe he’d reassured Sherlock and this was the end of it and they could go to sleep when...

“How would you know…?”

Mycroft’s eyes flew open as he ran through what he’d said, the bottom dropping out of his stomach.

“It’s just...it’s common knowledge.” He said, trying to bluster his way through. “Every Omega knows that their Alpha-“

“But you didn’t _say_ Omegas. You said ‘ _you_ ’ in the familiar form, and ‘ _him_ ’ as well, like you were speaking of a specific person.”

Mycroft bit his tongue, cursing himself for ever teaching Sherlock correct grammar. “I didn’t mean…I was speaking hypothetically-“

“Don’t lie!” Sherlock pulled away from Mycroft and this time it was his turn to sit up in bed in outrage. “Who’ve you shared a heat with?”

“No one!”

“Mycroft!”

“Keep your voice down!” Mycroft hissed, wondering how tonight could get any worse because he knew that he was going to tell Sherlock what had happened. If he didn’t now, Sherlock would pester him about it until he did. The only control Mycroft had over the situation was choosing the location of the disclosure- and he preferred here, in the privacy of his bedroom, than anywhere else Sherlock may accost him.

“Do you promise to tell no one?” He asked sternly, and Sherlock nodded.

“Yes.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“Swear.” Mycroft felt extremely childish as he held out his smallest finger but it had been his and Sherlock’s honored way of swearing to each other since Sherlock was a child, and to date neither had broken the bond.

“I swear.” Sherlock hooked his little finger with Mycroft’s, curling it around before letting go.

“Okay.” Mycroft took a deep breath and propped himself up against the headboard, wondering what his life had come to. “You remember that last year I visited Samaria to arrange a possible betrothal with their Alpha princess.”

Sherlock nodded. “The girl who hated reading.”

“Yes. Her. Well. I unfortunately timed the journey very poorly, and my heat came early, suddenly and without warning.”

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath. He knew the seriousness of keeping Mycroft’s secret and what was at stake if anyone found out- for all of them. From an early age, Mummy had ruthlessly impressed it on him, over and over, so he wouldn’t forget the lesson.

“Yes. Well. I managed to get us out of the country and across the sea, but by the time we arrived in Callais I was...very uncomfortable.” Mycroft remembered the clawing need which had seemed to rise with every passing minute, the dip and sway of the horse between his legs as he rode extremely unsettling. “I was lucky because the rain dampened much of my scent, and we made it as far as Belgravia Forest before Captain Lestrade discovered my condition.”

Sherlock was hanging on his every word. Mycroft paused, parsing through what he would tell him, because he knew Sherlock had a deep respect for the Captain. He had personally seen enough and heard reports from his spies to know that Lestrade felt genuine affection for the little prince, indulging him in all sorts of antics over the barracks, training yards, and stables. Mycroft didn’t want anything he said to change that.

“No one else was aware of what was wrong with me, and he gave out the idea that I was ill, then issued orders that the rest of the entourage would remain behind while he procured better lodgings for he and myself. We managed to make it to an inn on the edge of the forest, paid for a room, and he sent a letter to Mummy explaining what was happening.”

Mycroft drew in a breath. The memory of Gregory’s scenting in the stable haunted him, filling him with such desperate longing it was a full minute before he was able to speak again.

“She wouldn’t have been able to arrive in time, not until the next evening at the earliest and that was too long to stay in heat without relief. So Captain Lestrade assisted me.”

It was such a cold way to describe what had occurred between them and Mycroft fought to hide how he felt from Sherlock. He had done so well, being in control of his emotions since that wretched heat...and all that had came afterward.

Mummy had been very angry, and at first dismissed Captain Lestrade immediately for behavior unbecoming a Captain of the Prince’s Guard. Stymied when Gregory refused to have his silence bought with money or land, instead promising he would remain quiet because of his loyalty to the throne which he’d sworn to uphold and protect, she not only doubted his faithfulness, she raged against his remaining in close proximity to her son. He would take advantage again, she said, and expect favors from Mycroft in order to remain silent.

As soon as he heard that the Captain had refused the bribes, Mycroft met his mother in the Throne Room, prepared to fight for the Captain and his position.

“There is no one I trust more.” He had argued. “Captain Lestrade has been by my side for years, defending me and fighting, and I want no one else at my back.” He had almost winced at his unfortunate word usage, but remained impassive.

“He’ll have lost respect for you, Mycroft, that is why he can no longer hold his position.” The Queen of Northumbria had said, her golden circlet sitting regally on her brow, no trace of Mycroft’s loving mother discernable. “Let me speak frankly. It has always been that way between us, has it not?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“The Alpha does not love you."

"I know, ma'am." Mycroft's words felt distant to his own ears, and he could feel his face settling into protective impassivity like stone.

"He will _never_ love you. It's not possible. He used you during your heat as a willing vessel. You are _nothing_ to him. You and your heat were a duty to be dispatched. It may have been a pleasant duty for him." She snorted. "But it was still a duty. He can talk of loyalty and honor and the vows he's made to us if he wants, but at the end of the day he is _paid_ to care for you, Mycroft. That is all. You are not special to him, even if you did give him your virginity. What you feel for him will never matter to him but he will exploit it if he can to share another heat with you. He isn't different from other Alphas in that regard. Even if you want to keep him close to you as Captain of your Guard, hoping that will sway him to care for you, please believe me that it will not."

"Yes, ma'am." Mycroft's heart was shattering and the only comfort he could take was that his face remained expressionless so only he knew about it. Oh gods, it _hurt_. Every word his mother said, he knew was true. Of course he was nothing to Gregory. Of course it had meant nothing. They were all things he had thought himself, in the dark of night when he cried his eyes out from want until they were red and scratchy.

"Gregory Lestrade fucked you. I know what happens during a heat, intimately, and he took you on that filthy mattress I saw in that inn without any respect to you. You asked him to do that and _of course_ he would oblige.” Her sarcasm was sharp enough to cut. “How can he continue to be your Captain of the Guard and take orders from you, take you seriously, when he’s had you on his knot? He can't. No Alpha can after they've fucked an Omega.”

The vulgar language from his elegant mother had stunned Mycroft into silence, but more so were the hurtful implications directed at himself which were painful to hear from her usually loving voice.

Mycroft had felt it then, the ice sliding into place in his chest, glacier slow, as he looked up at his mother ensconced on her throne, and in that moment he realized, with a shock, that he no longer liked her. It was the first fracture between them, small, but irreparable. It would only widen.

But all too soon, Mycroft had recovered, rallying and arguing his own point with chilly calm. It had taken days of persistence, and a heart of ice to sustain himself, but Mycroft had emerged victorious.

Gregory was reinstated Captain Lestrade of the Prince’s Guard and they had never discussed what had happened between them. Mycroft maintained a respectable distance, sending dispatches when possible and limited the time they spent together, even when they traveled. Captain Lestrade was professional and appropriate at all times, sending ahead a servant with a request to meet with His Highness instead of coming himself. He took orders from Mycroft without hesitation, without a trace of insolence, his eyes lowered and rarely even looking at Mycroft. Whenever Mycroft mentioned he would be absent for a number of days (never mentioning why, but they both knew) he acted as if nothing was amiss, muttering “Yes, Your Highness” and assuring Mycroft he would take care of things in his absence.

It was as if nothing had ever happened.

Which was as it should be, Mycroft reminded himself. He had made promises to his mother, even if he detested her now, and more importantly, he had made promises to Sherlock. His little brother and his happiness were worth any pain Mycroft may put himself through.

“He assisted me until Mummy arrived,” He said hollowly to Sherlock, “and then she escorted me back to the palace, and it was over.”

Sherlock was speechless, then. “Did you...want it?” He asked carefully, his hand tentatively finding Mycroft’s on the bed, prepared for the worst. Mycroft gripped his hand, nodding.

“It wasn’t like that, Sherlock. Yes. I did want it.” He had wanted it every day since then, too. “Captain Lestrade is a good man, you know that for yourself. You’ve seen the evidence. He has honor and decency, and he would lay down his life for me. He treated me very kindly.”

They sat, holding hands, for a while longer, each lost in their own thoughts, until a shudder worked it’s way down Sherlock’s spine, the room too chilly, and he sniffled, using his other hand to wipe his nose purely because he knew it disgusted Mycroft.

Mycroft didn’t let him down, sneering to lighten the mood. “That is disgusting, Sherlock. It won’t do for you to be ill for the betrothal ceremony. Time for bed.”

He slipped down beneath the covers again and Sherlock followed him, snuggling nearby. Mycroft closed his eyes, ready to sleep, but Sherlock had one more question.

“Does it hurt?”

“Does what hurt?”

“...knotting.”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft pulled his little brother to him and Sherlock let himself be tugged into a hug without protesting. “It doesn’t hurt. It feels...nice, actually. And there’s nothing to be scared of, Locky. You are far from that- you won’t be of age for 7 more years- and your body is far, far from ready for all of this. You’ll grow, you’ll develop, and when the time comes, your body will know what to do. And I’ve done the best I can to see to it that you will have a good Alpha who will ease you through it.”

“I know you have.” Sherlock said. “Thank you...Goodnight, My.”

“Goodnight, Locky.”

* * *

 

Sherlock stayed awake, listening to his older brother’s breathing even out as he fell asleep. He hadn’t meant to keep Mycroft awake for so long- he knew he was busy- but Sherlock had had so many questions that couldn’t wait. He was rather tired himself, but after all the new information Mycroft had given him, it would be hours before he allowed himself to sleep.

He nestled under the covers which were warm and fine. He wouldn’t go back to his own bed, he decided. It was too cold and besides, he wanted to be close to Mycroft. When he thought of his older brother, or whenever he was near him, Sherlock felt calm. Mycroft was smart and there was almost nothing he couldn’t do. Sherlock trusted him completely.

As Mycroft started snoring softly, Sherlock frowned up at the ceiling, uncomfortable with one facet of information he’d deduced, one that he didn’t think Mycroft had meant to reveal to him.

He was aware of everything Mycroft had sacrificed for him, to install Sherlock as the Crown Prince in Northumbria and to keep him safe and have a chance at a comfortable life. He knew that if Mycroft hadn’t hidden that he was an Omega, Mycroft would be the Crown Prince instead and the one marrying an Alpha. Mycroft would be the one ascending to the throne after their parents. Mycroft would be the one everyone bowed to the deepest and Mycroft would be the one who would have a family of his own and a future.

Mycroft, with his analytical mind and attention to detail, his annoying over protectiveness of Sherlock, with his plots and plans and spies, with his intelligence and cold attitude to everyone who wasn’t Sherlock, Mycroft who knew the laws and dictated the new ones and decided how best to rule Northumbria, Mycroft…

Mycroft who was in love with Captain Lestrade.

It had never crossed Sherlock’s mind that Mycroft would want more than what he had. But he did.

Captain Lestrade.

Sherlock may have been 11, but he knew unhappiness when he heard it, and the way Mycroft had spoken of his esteemed Captain of the Guard had been miserable. Heartbreaking. To assimilate that his reserved, aloof older brother was in love with Captain Lestrade (and that he had lost his virginity to him in an inn on the edge of the forest) took Sherlock almost until dawn. It was so unlike him- Mycroft hated people and kept everyone who wasn’t Sherlock at arms length- but the evidence was there for all to see.

The sun was lightening the windows in the east when Sherlock finally managed it, and he realized with a start that he’d been so preoccupied with his brother’s unhappiness, he’d forgotten all about being worried over John Watson.


End file.
